


Roadkill

by Princesszellie



Series: Prompts and Drabbles [27]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Cannon compliant, Cars, Gen, destrution, kangaroos, pre-kaiju war, young Hansens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5479484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princesszellie/pseuds/Princesszellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a wild weekend in the big city Herc and Scott head back to the old homestead, but their trip across the desert becomes the scene of a grisly homicide....of the 'Roo kind!</p><p>Inspired by a conversation with Sonora and loosely based on "The Trophy" of The Shop Brat Life</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roadkill

It was a warm night, the stars were sparkling against the velvet pitch of space, and the air smelled of desert flowers. Herc had rolled his window down to enjoy the nocturnal beauty of the open countryside. It was an otherwise bleak and forlorn stretch of the rural highway, nothing for miles and miles; but once the sun had set and the red-orange dirt was hidden from sight it almost became magical. In a mind-numbing, zone out kind of way.

The drone of the truck’s engine was making him sleepy, so he reached over and turned the radio up another couple notches. Scott was asleep on the seat beside him, arms crossed over his chest, head resting on the window, knees against the dash; Herc smiled at how peaceful he looked. It had been a _long_ weekend and in reality he was just hung over as fuck.

Herc was too and yet, as usual, he got stuck with doing the driving. It had been his furlough, and after months of begging from his little brother he had agreed to spend it taking him to all bars and nightclubs in Melbourne. He was stationed at Williams, which was a doable distance from the city so that had not been the hang up. The hang up had been driving all the way out into the wasteland where they had grown up to retrieve, and now drop off, Scottie.

Why on earth he had agreed to this arrangement he didn’t know. Scott had his license, but their Father wouldn’t let him take the car any distance, and their Mother thought it was an excellent way to force Herc to come home-not once but _twice_. Not an ideal plan that was for sure.

God he was tired. Maybe he should just pull over and nap for an hour or two, they had the time, he wasn’t expected back on base for another full 48 hours. One little two hour snooze wouldn’t make him tardy, besides Scott was already out and-

Suddenly something leapt into the two narrow headlight beams and before Herc could react it was attaching itself to the truck grill with force. “Fuck!” Herc screamed, more in surprise than fear, and slammed the breaks hard sending the rear end of the truck sliding sideways.

Scott went slamming into the dashboard, cracking his head against the windshield. He joined his brother in screaming as the tires spun in the dirt and gravel, throwing them around the cabin before finally skittering to a stop.

“What the bloody fuck?!” Scott demanded in a high pitched voice that belied his age.

“I don’t fucking know!” Herc shouted back. It looked like he had hit a fucking person! There was blood spattered up the hood and window; and lying along the side of the road was a disturbingly person like heap.

The engine was steaming in the cool desert night air. They sat in stupefied silence; Herc gripping the wheel in adrenaline fueled terror and Scott holding his head in blinding pain.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Scott hissed. He felt super dizzy and nauseous suddenly, and needed air. He flung the door open and went to get out.

“Where are you going!?” Herc demanded staring at him.

Scott stepped gingerly on to the still hot tarmac. “I’m going to go see what it is.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake wait!” Herc sighed. They had no idea what it was he had hit, and honestly it might not be fully dead. He reached under his seat for his service piece and got out too. He ignored the rolling of his brother’s eyes as he motioned for him to stay behind him as they approached the body of _whatever_.

He had never drawn his piece before and was surprised by how steady his hands and grip were given the blood pounding in his head. Basic training was paying off. The closer they got to the victim the less light was thrown by the truck’s headlamps, one of which was completely shattered.

Herc’s nerves made him want to squeeze the trigger and put a slug in whatever it was just to be safe, but he refrained mostly for Scottie’s sake. Scott had no fear, now or ever, and where Herc was cautious he was curious.

He brushed past Herc despite a wordless sound of protest. “Holy shit it’s a big old boomer!”

Herc groaned. Fuck. It would be just his luck he would total his one and only ride on some fucking kangaroo, in the middle of the night, in East Jesus Nowhere.

Scott nudged the animal with the toe of his boot, and jumped back two feet. “Christ!”

Herc yelped too and was ready to open fire. Scott began laughing hysterically at the look on his face, which was quickly turning from fear to abject hatred. “You son of bitch,”

Scott made the mistake of doubling over in his hysterics and felt like he might toss his cookies. The feeling was not alleviated by the scent of fresh blood. He really might vomit.

“I fucking hate you.” Herc muttered going back to the truck and trading the gun for a Maglite. He returned for a closer look at the roo. It was a _big_ one, definitely pushing the two hundred pound end of the scale. Neither Hansen had seen one this up close and personal, and Scott could not resist giving it a little pet to see how soft it was. It was about what he imagined.

Herc could only look at the mangled carcass and see dollar signs being tossed into the gentle desert breeze. He was loathe to go look at the damage done to the truck, but he didn’t relish standing around in the dark and becoming dingo food either so it was time to face the music.

Torch in hand Herc returned to the only victim that mattered, his beloved truck. It was _bad_. Like they might not make it home bad. There was blood and hair stuck in every crack and crevice of the hood and grill- even the ones that had not existed minutes before. It looked like something out of a low budget horror movie.

Getting the hood open was a chore, and once he had pried Scott away from poking the boomer with a literal stick, he could begin the process of diagnosis. Scott turned the key a third time and nothing happened except an irritating grinding sound.

“It’s dead Herc,” he pronounced expertly.

Herc rolled his eyes, “Who’s the jet mechanic here? It’s not a lost cause yet. Get over here and hold this damn light.”

Scott grudgingly left the driver’s seat and took up flashlight duty while his brother crawled inside the engine cavity. He started to shiver; he couldn’t tell if it was from the cold, his obvious concussion or the howl of the dingoes in the not too far distance. “Hurry up!” he whined.

His brother ignored him, much too focused on reattaching a popped coolant line and praying enough of the caustic liquid stayed in the radiator for the engine to run for a few hundred miles- where _maybe,_ if there was a god, they would find a gas station or something.

Some muttered curses, the addition of his blood to the war zone and Scott finally losing the contents of his stomach on the _opposite_ side of the road later; Herc felt that he had the truck in operational status. Maybe.

Ignoring Scotts retching, he plunked into the driver’s seat once again. He felt like he was trapped in some horrible nightmare. Rubbing his eyes to clear them of fog and replacing it with the bracing burn of automotive engine chemicals, he reached for the key. “You better start old girl or I might cry.”

Scott looked up from his doubled over position at Herc’s slightly premature whoop of victory as the engine sputtered to life then cut out. “Motherfucker!” He wobbled back over as Herc stalked back around to the front and shoved himself back into the greasy abyss. More angry sounds and clanging then another attempt, or four, and _finally_ , at almost the point of intense despair she turned over and stayed over.

“Oh thank god.” Scott groaned. Herc didn’t answer out loud but finally exhaled and let his forehead rest against the cool metal of vehicle’s frame. For some reason of all the feelings roiling around inside him, _hunger_ was the loudest and most pressing.

“Alright let’s get out of here,” Herc let the hood drop with a clang, and jumped back out of its path as it sprung back open unexpectedly. It took quite a bit of muscle to force the twisted metal back into place and even then it took a chunk of rope to tie it shut.

Scott stifled a laugh at the current appearance of Herc’s beloved ‘baby’. He knew better then to test his sweaty, sleep deprived, SEAL Team trained older brother’s current temper. The one concussion he had was more than enough. Instead he wandered back over to the dead kangaroo and looked down on it thoughtfully.

“Scott! Get in the fucking car!” Herc snapped. The engine was still going strong, but time might be of the essence. No time for dicking around.

To his absolute horror Scott bent down and started hauling on the corpse. “What the bloody fuck are you doing!?” he demanded.

Shit! Stupid thing was _heavy_. Scott was only able to budge it a few feet before he had to stop and catch his breath. “I’m taking this with us.” He panted.

Herc made an indignant sound, “Why!?”

“We can’t just leave him here! Besides…You _know_ Dad would kill you if he knew you left all this good steak laying by the road side for the fucking dingoes.” He resumed pulling tomorrow’s dinner toward the bed of the truck.

Fuck. He was right. Dad would be pissed if they didn’t bring it home. God, he hated life out here sometimes. Grudgingly Herc got out and helped his brother wrestle the carcass into the back of the truck. This was a new all-time low for them. Really, he could not think of a sketchier, grosser thing they had ever done. And that included some stuff from this weekend.

It took a bit of effort to get the old roo into the back and Herc cursed everyone and everything the entire time. He slammed the tailgate shut and sent the truck rocking. “Happy?” he gestured to the blood that seemed to be everywhere.

“Yep.” Scott wiped his hands off in the sparse grass and gave Herc one of his brilliant smiles. Sometimes it was hard to be angry with him when he looked like that; now was _not_ one of those times. Without a word Herc returned to his seat and barely gave Scott time to haul himself inside before putting the truck into gear.

The rest of the trip home was uneventful and blessedly quiet. Scott curled back up, in a less vulnerable position this time, and Herc was left to stew in his wrath. Miraculously they made it home before the sun came up, and after an initial flurry of questioning and a dramatic retelling the boomer was moved into the garage for rendering later. Their father had been unable to resist a snarky comment about the irony of Herc’s dislike of hunting, and hitting something being the only way he would ever bag a trophy.

Time passed, the truck was rebuilt and Herc (mostly) forgot about the incident. That was until one Christmas morning, when Scott plopped a large poorly wrapped box in his lap while wearing that shit eating grin of his. Herc’s red alert went off even before he finished unwrapping it, but he was not prepared for the fuzzy red face that greeted him upon opening the box.

“What the fuck!?” Scott’s laughter pealed loudly at his revulsion. “It fucking looks like its _smiling!_ ”

Scott flailed with delight at his cleverness. “It was my idea, but Dad did the mount. He wanted to commemorate your first and only kill.”  

Herc rolled his eyes so hard it hurt, but deep down he loved it. He had in fact, through very random circumstances, killed this thing- and at great personal cost to himself and his property. When it hung on the wall no one had to know that he nailed that two hundred pound roo with a two thousand-five hundred pound four wheel drive.

Years went by and the old man’s fur began to fade and one of his eyes had to be replaced after a drunken adventure. A sick twist of fate and the apocalypse would bring the Hansen brothers many kills, all of them hard fought and unwanted, but that old banger from their youthful glory days hung proud on the wall of whatever barracks they were stationed in- a reminder of happier days and humble beginnings.

**Author's Note:**

> This whole story is a spin off of "The Trophy" in my Shop Brat Life series (which is a true story) that Sonora inspired. Sorry it took so long! But I have to say I am pleased with how it came out. ;) I have never killed anything with a car....and I have never even seen a kangaroo so any inaccuracies are to be chalked up to artistic license. 
> 
> I love Herc and Scott no matter what I write them in. This could be slashy if you read between the lines, but I wanted it to be cannon compliant. Young guts and glory Hansen boys...long before families and the Kaiju....first story like that I've written. 
> 
> A fun romp for sure! Thanks Sonora for the plot bunny, I hope you like it! <3


End file.
